The Night of the Kingmaker's Revenge
by Mneme.miny.moe
Summary: During the most contested election in U.S. history, an unknown villain threatens to fix the election in favor of the candidate who agrees to his demands. Jim and Artie are sent to investigate, but find nothing--until they meet a young Cajun boy named Jair
1. The Streets of New Orleans

_The Grant presidency has come to an end. A strange new world presented itself to America as on November 7th, 1886 the country voted to choose its next president._

_A few weeks after the voting, the country was in the middle of the ugliest voting scandal this country had ever seen. Every vote counted and was counted, over and over again. Back-door deals were being offered and negotiated. Only days before the final decision was reached, a letter arrived in Washington and the campaign headquarters of both candidates Rutherford B. Hayes and Samuel J. Tilden._

_Ballot boxes from ten different polling locations in New Orleans, Louisiana had been stolen the night of the election—before the ballots could be counted. There were more than enough ballots to give the election to one candidate or the other. The letter listed several demands, including sole usage rights of eight key shipping lanes and tariff and taxation limits. If a candidate chose to agree to the demands, the ballots voting for that candidate would be 'found.' _

_Of course the Secret Service had already been investigating the ballot-box thefts. The letters brought the case to the forefront of the Service's agenda. Unfortunately, a day before the threatening letters had arrived, the agent investigating the theft had failed to report in and was now considered missing, probably dead._

_At another time they might have sent another agent, but possibly not. A few ballot boxes normally were not worth risking another life. Now, however, the situation was critical. Colonel Richards had no choice but to put his best and brightest on the job. Three days after the letters had been received, James West and Artemis Gordon were on their way to New Orleans. _

* * *

Jair scampered down the dark alleyway and peered out between two of the tall warehouses that lined the New Orleans docks. He searched the crowds until he again spied the slight man dressed in the fancy blue suit and black hat. He really stood out among the crowds of filthy wharf laborers and sailors. Always one to be on the lookout for an easy mark, Jair studied the man carefully, turning his head so that his one good eye could see the man clearly. Not an easy target for a pick-pocket, the wharf-brat decided as he watched the confidence with which the small man moved though the mobs of dock workers. Most people as clean and well-dressed as the man in blue would not be that comfortable around the rough laborers.

Jair watched as the man in blue was nearly knocked over by a drunken old man with a Cajun accent. Although the old drunkard was loudly apologetic, Jair noticed the note passed from the old man to the man in blue and the quick look between the two men. They were obviously working together, but didn't want that to be widely known. Jair grinned. He loved to know secrets. The old drunkard reeled off down the quay and the man in blue turned back into town.

After a moment of hesitation, Jair headed after the man in blue. Jair liked to know everything that was going on in his small corner of New Orleans, but since only his right eye worked properly, choosing someone to follow who stood out among the denizens of this part of town made it easier. The man in blue easily made his way through the dark and unfriendly streets of New Orleans's lower districts. He stopped in front of bars and houses of ill-repute, reading the names carefully before moving on. He must be looking for a certain place, Jair thought. Before Jair could offer assistance, however, the man in blue turned down an alleyway. He was followed by a rather large gang of men who had suddenly appeared behind him.

Jair turned to go; the man in blue would not survive—or at least not survive very well. Just as he was about to leave, something flashed in the sunlight; a knife being drawn from its hiding place by one of the gang members. This made Jair begin to think. His knife had broken several days ago. Maybe if he helped the gang, he would get a knife. Jair carefully made his way towards the ally – from the back, of course. Jair wasn't suicidal. In fact, Jair was very clever at surviving. By the time he arrived, the fight had been going on for several minutes.

Jair was astounded. The blue man was not only holding his own, he was beating back the eight attackers with surprising ease. Change of plans – help the man in blue. That would get him the knife for certain. Jair carefully analyzed the situation and was just about to make his move when a shadow blocked the street side of the alleyway.

"Hold it, West," a menacing voice spoke from the shadow. The shadow held a gun and had it aimed directly at the man in blue. The man stopped fighting and stood still, breathing hard. "You are as good as your reputation, West, if not better. I'm impressed. Eight of my best men and you were still abl-uh!" the last part of his sentence was cut off with an exclamation of pain as Jair leaped out of the doorway he had been hiding in and tackled the shadow with the gun. The menacing gunman was taken completely by surprise and Jair had little trouble subduing him with several street-fighting tricks, none of which were very nice.

The man called West easily dealt with the remaining thugs; soon the alley was carpeted in unconscious men. By the time West had finished, Jair was quietly searching the gunman he had tackled for a knife. He didn't want the gun – policemen stopped people like him if they carried guns. A knife could be hidden. It was good in a fight, could be used to make things, or even allow escapes from bad places. Jair wanted a knife. He continued to search as West came up behind him and stared. That was fine, he could stare all he wanted. Jair didn't care; he just wanted to find a knife—or maybe the gunman's wallet.

* * *

James West looked at the unconscious gunman and the small boy with something akin to wonder. The man with the gun, Joe Verde, was a leading smuggler in the New Orleans area and had lost quite a bit of business to the Secret Service. How the Verde had known who he was would have to remain a mystery to Jim for the time being. Verde was very unconscious.

This street urchin had been following him for the past couple of hours. When Jim realized that Verde's gang was following him, he had moved into the alleyway to settle the dispute quietly. When Verde had shown up, though, Jim knew he was in trouble. Then this kid had leaped out of nowhere—onto a fully grown, armed man—and saved Jim a great deal of trouble. Now the urchin, couldn't be more than seven or eight, was calmly searching the unconscious man for—something.

"What is your name, son?" Jim asked in English. The boy turned his head and peered over his shoulder. Then he stood and turned so he was standing opposite of Jim, just looking at him. A Cajun boy—light but tawny skin, dark hair and flashing black eyes. Actually, only one of the boy's eyes were black; the boy's left eye was cloudy-white and the area of his face around the eye was slightly disfigured. He must have been almost completely blinded in that eye by a blow to the head several years ago.

_What is your name?_ Jim tried again, this time in Cajun.

"I speak English," the boy replied, still studying Jim's face carefully. Jim was relieved. His French was pretty weak and his Cajun was even worse. The boy had an accent, but nothing too difficult to understand.

"Well, then what is your name?" Jim tried again.

"Jair," the boy replied, giving the 'j' the French, slightly rumbling sound.

"That's your only name?" Jim queried.

"Jeremiah I was called. Now I am just Jair," the boy smiled wryly.

"Well, then Jeremiah, thank you for helping me. Is there something I can do for you as payment for your…valuable services?" Jim knew that this young boy must be very clever to survive on the street and thus would never do something for nothing. He must want something. He looked a little thin. "Maybe I could get you dinner?" Jim suggested. The boy's wry smile twisted further.

"You are very kind to offer, sir, but all I really want is a knife," he spoke plainly. This had been his purpose in helping. Jim knew Jair had to have a motive beyond just being a good Samaritan. Jim reached back and pulled the knife he had carried in his belt under his jacket and gave it to the boy. It was a good knife: sharp, effective, and good looking to boot. The boy gave a pleased cry as he took it in his hands. He cradled the small weapon as if it was gold. "Thank you, Sir! Thank you! It is so beautiful! It is so sharp!" his compliments faded away into incomprehensible Cajun in his glee.

Jim realized that this was probably the first nice thing little Jair had ever _seen_, much less owned, in his short life. Jim wouldn't miss the knife; the gift would be an excellent use of tax-payer dollars. "Now, how about dinner?" He proposed.

"Oh, Sir! I could not ask! No, no; I have my beautiful new knife. I need nothing more!" Jair looked shocked. Jim nearly laughed aloud.

"Don't like charity, do yah?" Jair shook his head. "What makes you think I'm not going to make you pay me for it? I think I need another pair of eyes to tell me what is happening here – and you know the streets. What do you think?" The boy's good eye sparkled.

"I think this would be good. But I am afraid I cannot help you," he looked sad – Jim could tell he was pretending, but he did a pretty good job if it.

"What's the problem?" Jim took the bait.

"I have only one good eye. The other, she is no good. I cannot be another pair of eyes…" Jair allowed his sentence to drift off into silence.

"Somehow I think that having only one good eye hasn't kept you from seeing more than most people do with two. Come on, let's eat." Jim turned and made his way out of the alley. Jair followed on his heels.

"How could you tell, sir?" the boy asked wonderingly.

"I noticed you following me earlier. I thought I had lost you, but you showed up back on the docks. After that you stayed with me pretty well. You're better at tailing someone than most trained professionals," Jim answered, striding briskly down the filthy excuse for a backstreet, wondering where they could get decent food in this district of New Orleans. Suddenly Jair tapped on his arm.

"Sir, I can take you to a good place. It has good food, good drink, and good company. I think you will find it very…very…nice?" The last word was unsure.

_Better than nothing_ Jim thought, but he answered aloud, "Let's go then. Lead the way, Jair." The boy grinned and did, taking off at a run. Jim could do little but follow and wonder where exactly the boy was leading him.


	2. Back Doors and Business Lunches

They stopped in an alley by the back door of the "Lord of Chance" bar and hostel. Jair knocked and then quickly stepped out of the line of sight of whoever would open the door and motioned for Jim to do the same. He did so just in time to avoid a large cast-iron pot that came swinging out of the suddenly opened door. Jim raised his eyebrows. That was an unusual way to say hello. Jim realized that it was also a very clever way to combat thugs hoping for a back-door entrance. If you were not supposed to be at the back door, you wouldn't know to get out of the way.

After the pot disappeared a head peered out of the doorway and looked around. It was a sizable older woman who had obviously worn out her good looks working at the bar. She spotted Jair first—luckily.

_Jair! My sweet angel! What trouble have you caused today to call so early?_ she nearly yelled in Cajun. She must be a little deaf, too, though Jim. Jair's loud response confirmed Jim's theory.

_I helped this man here,_ he gestured toward Jim at this, _fight off a gang of men and he gave me this knife in payment,_ Jair proffered the knife. The woman's eyes grew large and she gently took the knife in her hands. After a moment she handed it back to Jair and then turned to look at Jim for the first time. He put on his most charming smile.

_After giving me the knife he wanted to eat and talk business with me, so I brought him here._ the boy finished, grinning. The woman, however, frowned at Jim and stared at him as if she wanted to be able to see his thoughts. Jim felt his smile grow slightly stiff. Her mother-hen glare seemed to be sizing up what manner of man he was.

_What sort of business to you want to speak with little Jair about?_ she nearly thundered. Jim kept his 'lady-killer' smile on his face and shrugged his shoulders. It would be best if they both thought he couldn't understand them. He couldn't reply anyway.

_He speaks really bad, Miss Amii. I can translate for you if you-_ Jair was cut off by another peal of thunder from Miss Amii.

"What you want wid dat boy?" she roared.

"I need information about the city. I know Jair can help, ma'm." Jim kept his tone as respectful as possible. He did not want to have an altercation with this mountain of matronly fury. She looked at him intently and gestured to Jair. She couldn't understand all that he had said.

_He says, 'I need to know about this part of New Orleans. I know that Jair can tell me what I need to know._ Miss Amii took all this in and then, without the terrifying thunder in her voice, yelled another question.

"You law?"

"Yes, I work for the government."

_He is a good man who works for the law, Miss Amii_.

"You turn us in?"

"No, I have no such intention."

_That is not what he is here for, Miss Amii_.

"Why are you here, den?"

"I have been ordered to investigate the disappearance of an agent operating in the New Orleans area."

_For his job, Miss Amii, he must_- Jair stopped and looked and Jim in confusion. His English was good, but the phrase 'investigate the disappearance of an agent operating in the New Orleans area' pretty much exceeded his vocabulary. Jim's charming smile slipped a little as a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"I have to find a lost friend of mine," Jim said and this time Jair grinned and nodded. He turned back to Miss Amii and began again to translate.

_I am sorry, Miss Amii; he used big words the first time. He says that for his job he must find his friend._

"Jair help?"

"Yes, Ma'm, Jair can be a great help."

_Jair can be a big help_, Jair dutifully repeated in Cajun and then began to plead with her, _please, Miss Amii, let me help. This man, he is a good man. He fights really well and is very brave. He looked at a gun ready to shoot him and didn't feel frightened! He will pay me, I am sure. He will make sure you can afford to feed me for a while longer!_ Jair finished. Jim's dashing smile had slipped off and was replaced by a look of friendly determination. Or so he hoped. His face might have just looked grim.

Miss Amii stared at him for another few seconds and then slowly stepped back from the alley doorway her sizable girth had been blocking.

"Come: eat. Jair hungry – you pay." It was as much a yes and he was going to get, but Jim was thankful. He respectfully took off his black hat and bowed politely.

"Thank you, ma'm," he said as he walked past her, into the belly of the building. Jair slipped in front of him and led him back into the kitchen.

"You welcome," boomed down the narrow hallway after them. Miss Anii watched as little one-eyed Jair led the man in his fine blue suit down the hallway, towards the kitchen. She stood still a moment and thought about his green-grey eyes, his charming smile, and his muscular figure. She clicked her tongue and thought to herself, "That man must leave a trail of broken hearts behind him. He is a handsome devil." She shook her head and wondered if he would be staying the evening. Probably not, she decided; to bad, the girls would be disappointed. Miss Amii shrugged and trudged down the hall, towards the front of her bar.


	3. Son of Louisiana

Once they reached the kitchen, Jair asked Jim what he wanted to eat.

"Whatever you like best, Jair, and order big – I'm paying." Jair smiled broadly and ordered something from the cook in rapid Cajun. After he finished he turned to Jim and led him to a small table in the corner of the kitchen, out of the cook's way.

"I am sorry I did not say more about this place; there was no time, really," he said, sitting down, looking a little shamefaced.

"I understand," Jim nodded compassionately and sat down as well. "You were hungry and didn't want to scare me off," he said.

"Miss Amii is a good woman, although she is a little deaf. My mother worked here, but she died. Miss Amii kept me around as long as she could afford. I still come back sometimes—especially if I'm in trouble."

Jair told his story without shame. This life of debauchery and thieving was all he had ever known. He had no idea that being the son of a dead barmaid was anything to be ashamed of or that pick pocketing was more than just a reason for the police to chase you.

"She treated you like her son. I was beginning to wonder…But now: to business. Would you be willing tell me all you know about places in this area and help me watch them for certain things?" Jim held his breath. If the boy didn't accept, Jim didn't know what he would do. He and Artie had chased every possible lead, the note Artie had given him at the dock had informed him that their last contact had been found dead. A bullet in the back; it was a nasty situation. Jim had been looking for the bar Artie had told him about when the gang jumped him and then Jair helped him out. The bar was their designated meeting spot and for the life of him, Jim just couldn't find it. He knew he really needed a guide.

"Yes, sir, I would be glad to. Would I also be telling the man you met on the docks what I learn?" Jim was surprised; he hadn't noticed Jair at the docks until about five minutes or so after he and Artie had met.

"Yes, you may also be reporting to my partner," Jim said. Jair looked a little disappointed. "Something wrong?"

"You are not surprised that I know this?" the boy asked, his eye looking at Jim sadly. Jim laughed and shook his head.

"Au contraire, Jair; I am very surprised," Jim said, smiling. The boy looked shocked.

"But you did not seem-" Jim stopped him with a wave of his hand.

"I have learned how to keep my thought in my head instead of on my face." That made little Jair grin and it was his turn to shake his head.

"I would like to learn this. How- how does one learn that skill?" Jair asked eagerly.

Jim's reply was simple and to the point, "Practice."

The cook called roughly to the boy in Cajun. Jair cheerfully answered and pointed at Jim. The large man sized Jim up and named a price for the meal. To Jim's surprise, Jair started bargaining with him; whittling down the price. Soon the price had traveled from highway robbery to petty theft and the cook would go no lower. Jair turned back to Jim, who had been doing his best to follow the rapid exchange while keeping a blank look on his face. Jair sighed sadly and told Jim the price. Jim got out his wallet and set a bill on the table that was several dollars above the price. Jim noticed the boy's good eye quickly observe where he returned his wallet. Jim was more thankful than ever for the deceptively deep pocket he had shoved his wallet into. No pickpocket could reach his wallet – without receiving a fist in the face first, at any rate.

The cook walked over and picked up the sizable bill. He slowly and painstakingly checked it to ensure it was genuine and then nodded amiably. He shook Jim's hand and then, after putting the satisfactorily large bill in his apron pocket, brought over their meal. A few mouthfuls later, Jim was already beginning to sweat. Jair had ordered a good, spicy Cajun dinner – Jair was a true son of Louisiana, no matter who his mother was.

* * *

Jair looked at this man called West in wonder and shook his head. So many adventures he had had! Jair felt that his life suddenly looked rather dull. West had taken a long time to finish his meal because Jair had been asking many questions. Finally, he was almost finished with his meal in the kitchen of the "Lord of Chance" bar and hostel. Much to Jair's amusement West was both red and sweating after eating the spicy dish. _Notherner_, Jair thought and giggled to himself.

West rose and thanked Cook in broken Cajun for the meal. Jair leapt to his feet and began to show West the way out when Cook grabbed the boy's sleeve. West seemed to understand that Cook wanted to speak to Jair alone, because he nodded and said, "I'll meet you outside, Jair."

When West had completely disappeared from view, Cook said, _Jair, you be careful of him. Government men are dangerous. Their friends don't live very long._ Cook drew his finger across his throat and then gave his young friend a worried look.

Jair nodded and smiled at Cook, _I'll be careful, Cook. See you later!_ With a bound Jair followed after West. Jair wasn't in this to make friends; this was business.

West was still in the hall just before the door, trying to politely extricate himself from a conversation the "working girls" had trapped him in. West looked a little frustrated, but he didn't seem embarrassed by the situation.

_Hey!_ Jair shouted at them, _back off you…_ he used several of the more descriptive terms he knew as he pushed through them, dragging West after him. West seemed a little shocked hearing such language in the mouth of a young a boy, but the girls seemed unperturbed. They continued to call after Jair and West until they had passed out of the alleyway and into the street.

"Bar and hostel, huh?" West murmured under his breath, "seems more like 'Bare and Hostile' to me."

Jair pretended he didn't hear and tried to keep his thoughts from showing up on his face. West looked down at him and nodded approvingly.

"Good job; I almost couldn't tell you heard. But, Jair," West paused a moment to ensure he had Jair's full attention, "when you are keeping your thoughts in you head and off you face…" he paused and Jair nodded, wishing West would get to the point. West stopped in the street, hooked his thumbs on his belt-buckle and looked very intently at Jair, "Don't hold your breath."


	4. Sarsaparilla Business

_I'm away on vacation for the next few weeks, so updates will be even slower than usual...if that is possible. I'll see you all when I get back!_

* * *

Artie took his watch out of his pocket and looked at it irritably. In the several hours since he had met Jim on the docks he had transformed himself from the drunken old Cajun on the docks to a much younger, wealthy-looking gambler. He was now a very annoyed gambler. Jim was over an hour late.

The door of the bar squealed open and in walked Jim. Artie had started to walk over to him—to ask if the gentleman was looking for a round of poker, of course—when he noticed that trailing behind Jim was a small street urchin of about seven or eight. He had a bad left eye and a slightly mashed face, but his good eye was sparkling and alert. His dark eye and his scruffy black hair identified him as a native Arcadian. His skin was a little pale, so he wasn't only that, but he was well-tanned and absolutely filthy. He was wearing cut-off trousers that looked too small and a shirt that looked too big. It was tied about his waist with a piece of twine. The boy had no shoes. Altogether, he was an impoverished street-brat.

Jim looked around and spotted Artie almost instantly. Then he reached into his jacket and took out a silver dollar. He said something to the urchin and handed it to him. The boy looked into Jim's face and smiled gratefully. He scampered over to the counter.

Only the top of his head could be seen from the other side, so he grabbed a chair from a nearby table and moved it over to the bar. Standing on his new perch, Jair proudly ordered a sarsaparilla from the bar keeper and paid in coin.

Jim made his way over to the discrete table where Artie had sat down. Artie dealt him cards and they started to play. They continued to play automatically while they talked.

"I'll call your bet and raise it twenty, Jim," Artie began.

Jim inspected his cards, "Milligan was dead when you arrived?"

"The police had already discovered the body. And in this part of town, I'm sure you can guess how long that takes."

"Call that and raise it ten. I don't think I want to, Artie."

"Two cards, please. Where did you pick up Puck?"

Jim dealt the cards and smiled at Artie's Shakespearian pseudonym for Jair. "Remember Joe Verde?" Artie nodded. The smuggler had been foiled in his attempts to cause serious trouble to the United States several times by the Secret Service. "The kid had been following me for a while and then showed up to help me out of a tight spot with Verde's gang. I gave him my white knife and lunch. He'll tell us all he knows and maybe even help us stake out a place."

"Ahhh!" Artie groaned in frustration when he looked at his cards. "He have any family?"

"None to speak of. His mother was a working girl," he looked at Artie, who nodded back, understanding the hint. "She died soon after he was born. Occasionally he goes back to the bar she worked in. The Madame is like a mother-hen to him, but she can't afford to keep him. One card." Jim got his card and waited for a moment. "Your turn, Artie."

"I know…" Artie sighed impatiently and raised it by another five. "Any other leads for Wilcox's location?"

"No, Jair is the best I've got. You?"

"One; I found that the carriage that Wilcox was taken in came from a stable near the polling station. It belongs to a company that you can rent the coach and driver—you know, to take you somewhere."

"Right, a taxi service. Cover and raise it twenty."

"Well, Jim, I'm at the end of my game," Artie declared and Jim looked a little disappointed. "Why don't we take the boy to the hotel and hear what he can tell us."

"Good idea, Artie. Full House"

"Thank you, Jim. Straight Flush."

* * *

Jair gazed in silent wonder at the grandly decorated lobby of the "Royal Queen" hotel. He stuck very close to West; he felt very uncomfortable. The man that West had told him to call Mr. Gordon had sent them on ahead to get a room. "Make sure they have a tub!" he had said as he left them in the street. Jair didn't know what a tub was, but the way Mr. Gordon looked at him when he said it made Jair feel uneasy.

"Like to have two rooms, one with a full bathroom," West casually said to the man behind the heavily engraved counter. Jair felt more nervous than ever as the finely dressed hotel worker looked down his rather long nose and seemed to wonder what such a scraggly little wretch was doing in his grand hotel. Jair looked at West, appealing for defense against the man's disparaging look.

"This is my friend, Master Jeremiah…Darnay. Please see to it that Master Darnay's room is directly next to ours." West's tone and the look on his face were quite enough to disperse any thoughts of little Master Darnay's insignificance.

After a few moments a young woman came and showed them up to West and Mr. Gordon's room. Jair guessed she also worked in the hotel. So many servants! Once they were safely inside the room, Jair turned to West, "'Darnay'?"

"You needed a surname," West replied laconically.

"_Why_ 'Darnay'?" Jair insisted.

West looked irritated, but explained that there had been a man in a book who was thought of badly because of who his family was. That man's surname was 'Darnay' and he thought it was very appropriate for Jair.

Jair nodded thoughtfully absorbing this new information. Before he could ask any more questions, another servant came up with bags that apparently belonged to West and Mr. Gordon. West took his bag and began to unpack his changes of clothing into a bureau on one of the walls. Jair quickly became bored watching him and wandered over to the window.

"There is Monsieur Gordon!" he exclaimed after about an hour of people watching.

Jim looked up from his unpacking and nodded, "Right on time."

"Monsieur Gordon is never late?" Jair wondered aloud.

"Never late without a good reason."

"Oh," Jair said. He watched as Mr. Gordon quickly strode up to the hotel and disappeared inside. Mr. Gordon had been carrying a box under his arm. What would it contain? Jair sat on the floor under the window and watched the door of the room eagerly. Without thinking, he took out his beautiful white knife and began to fidget with it.

Mr. Gordon came into the room in another few moments. Jair leapt to his feet and leaned forward a little, to get a better look at the large box.

"Do you want to know what I got for you, Jair?" he said.

"For me, sir?"

"For you, sir!" Artie said in his most simpering, "British servant" tone.

Jair laughed, "Please, Monsieur Gordon, please!"

Artie lifted the lid of the box and revealed two new boy's suits of clothes and a pair of pajamas. Jair's eye grew wide and he reached tentatively towards the lapels of one of his new jackets, stroking it gently. He looked up at Artie, not really sure if these beautiful things were really his.

"You like them?" Artie asked, pretty sure of Jair's answer.

"Ah, Monsieur…" the boy was speechless. Not a common occurrence, to tell the truth.

"I'm glad. But before you can use them—"

Jair looked up like he'd been struck. The condition recalled to his mind that this was a business arrangement. Everything was to be fairly paid for—goods for services rendered. "What should I do first, Monsieur Gordon?" he asked pertly.

"First, Jeremiah m'lad...you will take a bath."


End file.
